Prep Spotlight

Published: Friday, January 16, 2009 at 4:30 a.m.

Last Modified: Thursday, January 15, 2009 at 11:59 p.m.

Some days, I wish I could travel back in time, about 15 years, and have a conversation with myself.

I wish I could tell 13-year-old me to shut up for five seconds. Maybe he’d listen to himself. He didn’t listen to anyone else at 13. But, heck, does anyone?

I would look down at that awkward, scared kid and say, “Check it out. Someday, you’ll be tall.” One of the shorter kids in his class would have to believe it. The proof would tower over him.

Maybe then he’d believe the rest.

I’d tell him how soon, the Braves would actually win the World Series. And I’d tell him that eventually he’d find peace with Joe Montana’s exit from San Francisco. A new team will come to the Carolinas and it will, one day, play in the Super Bowl.

I’d try to explain how exciting all this was for him and utterly fail in the endeavor. Words won’t do it justice.

I would tell the kid, who sometimes wondered if he’d ever kiss a girl, that he’ll take one of the prettiest girls in school to the prom. I’d even tell him how his heart would be broken. More than once. I’d tell him much how it hurts, but that it only hurts for so long.

I’d mention that he’d break some hearts too, and how that hurts more.

I would tell 13-year-old me that someday he’d get paid to watch sports, and how he’d get to interview professional athletes, Hall-of-Fame coaches and golfing legends. His eyes would grow large and I’d say, “It’s every bit as cool as you think it is.”

I’d tell him to keep reading everything he could find because, one day, the kid who failed the eighth-grade writing test would become a professional writer.

Then, I’d say, “Look, you’re going to make more than your share of mistakes. But that’s OK.

“Sometimes the losses teach you more than the wins.”

I’d tell him that he isn’t always going to be unpopular. “There will come a day,” I’ll say, “when being popular doesn’t matter anymore.

“Which is a good thing. You’ll never be cool. But you’ll find people who are, and you’ll find that plenty of them enjoy your company.”

I’d tell him that he’s going to end up attending a small college he’s yet to hear of. I’ll explain how he grows to love that place. How it becomes a spot he calls home too.

And I’ll talk about how that school’s basketball team enters every game with three goals:

Have fun.

Get better.

Play to win.

“It’s not a bad way to approach every day of your life,” I’ll say.

Mostly I would want him to understand that he won’t always be awkward. He won’t always be scared and that the acne will, mostly, go away too.

“People will try to explain these things to you,” I’ll tell him. “You won’t believe them because you think you know everything and that will never change so maybe you’ll believe yourself.

“Trust me, life won’t always seem so hard.”

Some days I wish I could go back and tell that kid these things. There were times he needed to hear them.

Today, though, I wish that 17-year-old Jacob Swanson could have talked to his future self sometime last week.

I have no idea what he’d have said. But I have to think it would have helped.

<p>Some days, I wish I could travel back in time, about 15 years, and have a conversation with myself.</p><p>I wish I could tell 13-year-old me to shut up for five seconds. Maybe he’d listen to himself. He didn’t listen to anyone else at 13. But, heck, does anyone?</p><p>I would look down at that awkward, scared kid and say, Check it out. Someday, you’ll be tall. One of the shorter kids in his class would have to believe it. The proof would tower over him.</p><p>Maybe then he’d believe the rest.</p><p>I’d tell him how soon, the Braves would actually win the World Series. And I’d tell him that eventually he’d find peace with Joe Montana’s exit from San Francisco. A new team will come to the Carolinas and it will, one day, play in the Super Bowl. </p><p>I’d try to explain how exciting all this was for him and utterly fail in the endeavor. Words won’t do it justice.</p><p>I would tell the kid, who sometimes wondered if he’d ever kiss a girl, that he’ll take one of the prettiest girls in school to the prom. I’d even tell him how his heart would be broken. More than once. I’d tell him much how it hurts, but that it only hurts for so long.</p><p>I’d mention that he’d break some hearts too, and how that hurts more.</p><p>I would tell 13-year-old me that someday he’d get paid to watch sports, and how he’d get to interview professional athletes, Hall-of-Fame coaches and golfing legends. His eyes would grow large and I’d say, It’s every bit as cool as you think it is.</p><p>I’d tell him to keep reading everything he could find because, one day, the kid who failed the eighth-grade writing test would become a professional writer.</p><p>Then, I’d say, Look, you’re going to make more than your share of mistakes. But that’s OK. </p><p>Sometimes the losses teach you more than the wins.</p><p>I’d tell him that he isn’t always going to be unpopular. There will come a day, I’ll say, when being popular doesn’t matter anymore.</p><p>Which is a good thing. You’ll never be cool. But you’ll find people who are, and you’ll find that plenty of them enjoy your company.</p><p>I’d tell him that he’s going to end up attending a small college he’s yet to hear of. I’ll explain how he grows to love that place. How it becomes a spot he calls home too.</p><p>And I’ll talk about how that school’s basketball team enters every game with three goals:</p><p>Have fun.</p><p>Get better.</p><p>Play to win.</p><p>It’s not a bad way to approach every day of your life, I’ll say.</p><p>Mostly I would want him to understand that he won’t always be awkward. He won’t always be scared and that the acne will, mostly, go away too.</p><p>People will try to explain these things to you, I’ll tell him. You won’t believe them because you think you know everything and that will never change so maybe you’ll believe yourself.</p><p>Trust me, life won’t always seem so hard.</p><p>Some days I wish I could go back and tell that kid these things. There were times he needed to hear them.</p><p>Today, though, I wish that 17-year-old Jacob Swanson could have talked to his future self sometime last week.</p><p>I have no idea what he’d have said. But I have to think it would have helped.</p>